“It will be a bloodbath, sir,” Holk said. “It will uselessly burn up my men, the ones I need to hold back the Americans in the southwest as they drive north for London.”
Mansfeld stepped closer as if he was an American baseball manager ready to argue an umpire’s call. He clutched a pair of leather gloves in his left hand. Instead of slapping Holk across the face with them, he slapped the desk. “Speed, sir. You must employ speed and burn up whatever number of troops and machines of ours that are necessary. This is the moment where we scoop up trapped Americans. Once we destroy Fifth Army in a Cannae maneuver, freeing that flank, you will easily be able to withstand the southern American assaults. I know you see that.”
Holk looked away.
“It’s that stubborn pride of yours,” Mansfeld said. “You’re angry that Zeller has the glory. Isn’t that what’s causing you to pout?”
Holk’s head snapped back. He glared at Mansfeld while the red spots seemed to burn a brighter red.
“Yes,” Mansfeld said. “That’s what this is about. Finally, I understand you.”
“No,” Holk said.
“Yes!” Mansfeld said, and he raised his gloves as if to slap the general across the face.
Holk glared harder, and suddenly, his shoulders deflated. Without asking for permission, Holk sat on his chair. He stared at the floor, opened his mouth and managed a shrug.
“Listen to me,” Mansfeld said.
Holk continued to stare at the floor.
Mansfeld almost told the man to look at him, but he decided it wasn’t needed. Holk was listening finally, truly listening.
“Yours is the precarious position,” Mansfeld said. “I have entrusted you and no other with the most difficult task. Do you think my memoirs will gloss over your part? Zeller attacks. I have not called upon him to preform difficult defensive maneuvers. You are the Renaissance general, the one able to both attack and defend. You have the true mettle, sir, not Zeller.”
“I’m not concerned about such things,” Holk whispered.
Mansfeld laughed aloud.
Holk looked up.
“Let us not lie to each other, Erich,” Mansfeld said. “What military man doesn’t seek glory in combat? You are a genius at battle. Your reputation means everything to you just as it means everything to me. We are older men now, but we still have the spirit of the boy in us. We are human. We’re not machines. Don’t think of yourself as a machine. We all have breaking points and we all have fierce pride. I want you to harness that pride for the glory of Germany and for your own glory, sir. Do not let Zeller hear about you sulking. Let him see that no matter what kind of military situation you find yourself in, you excel. Beat him at being the well-rounded general.”
Slowly, Holk nodded.
Holk stood up. “I’m sorry about this, sir.”
Mansfeld clapped Holk on the shoulder, and he held out his hand. The two generals shook.
“Can I count on you to the end?” Mansfeld asked.
“Yes, sir,” Holk said. “I will do my duty.”
“Good.”
Holk saluted.
Mansfeld saluted back, turned without another word and took his leave. This wasn’t the only fire that needed putting out, but it was likely the biggest one he’d have today.
Militia Private Jake Higgins stood at attention as MDG Sergeant Franks prowled in front of the platoon. After leaving them during the battle, the sergeants had returned to find the three survivors. The lieutenant presently stood behind the sergeant, watching the proceedings as he leaned against his jeep. He fingered something, a crucifix perhaps. Was the man a Catholic? The jeep had a big tarp in back, hiding something bulky underneath.
Charlie stood on one side of Jake while Corporal Lee stood on the other. The rest of the penal platoon was a bunch of newbies. Well, most of the MDGs were the original members, but Jake hardly thought of them as human. The newbies shied away from the three survivors. These newbies were a little better trained than the original batch had been, but not by much.
“The Krauts are stirring,” Franks said in his arrogant way. “They’re obviously going to attack us. They have to, because Fifth Army HQ is planning to send Syracuse Command some extra battalions lying around here. Our side has to drive out the little amphibious attack made at Rochester. That doesn’t mean squat to you girls except for one thing. We’re going to throw a little surprise for the Krauts today. Our CO believes the Germans will spearhead the assault with Sigrids. Like what else is new? So we have a little surprise for them.”
Franks turned and pointed at the lieutenant’s jeep. The lieutenant motioned to another sergeant. The MDG whipped back the tarp to reveal a stack of RPGs.
From his place in the lineup, Jake couldn’t tell for certain, but they looked newer than the old ones—the ancient RPGs they’d used days ago. The older pieces of junk had usually bounced off a Sigrid’s armor. The HEAT shells hadn’t even ignited, and therefore had done as much damage as an M16’s bullet.
“Most of you will get an RPG,” Franks said. “Those that don’t will team up with a militiaman who does. If your partner dies, you take his weapon and use it. Anyway, you’re all going to crawl out into no-man’s land. I suggest you do it slow and easy. Otherwise, the enemy’s automated system will pick you off, and we don’t want that.”
“Find a shell-hole to hide in,” Franks said. “There are a lot of them out there and plenty of them are deep. Just make sure you don’t hide in one with an unexploded warhead.”
Several of the newbies glanced at each other with incredulous stares. Jake knew they were still getting used to the sergeant’s morbid humor, which always came at a penal militiaman’s expense.
“After you get comfortable,” Franks said, “you wait. When the Sigrids came, you hunker down in the bottom and use your ears instead of your eyes. You let them pass. Once they’re clanking at our first trench, firing at our strongpoints, then you’re going to pop up like gophers. You let them have it at from behind—ka-boom. It will be easy.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jake noticed some of the newbies turn white with fright.
“That’s suicide,” one newbie said, an older guy with white in his hair. Jake heard the man had been a pastor teaching the wrong things about homosexuality. The government had certain rules about what priests and preachers were supposed to say behind their pulpits.
Franks strode to the newbie, pulling out a shock rod from his holster as he did. “What did you say?” the sergeant asked.
The newbie with white in his hair began to tremble, and he shook his head.
Franks smirked, and he raised his voice. “Does anyone else have anything to say?”
Jake raised a hand.
Franks’ eyes lit up, and he approached, with the shock rod ready, his thumb resting on the on-off switch. “Go head, Private. I’m listening.”
“Will you be out there with us, Sarge?” Jake asked.
Franks glared at Jake, but finally, he turned toward the lieutenant.
“Tell him,” the lieutenant said. “It’s a reasonable question.”
Jake didn’t twitch or quit looking straight ahead. He still felt the surprise from the newbies: the survivor could ask questions without receiving a beating from the guards.
Jake had wondered before about the lieutenant. Did the man feel remorse sometimes for being part of such a dickhead organization?
“If you had a brain in that thick skull of yours,” Franks said, “you would have already figured out that we’ll be in the trenches.” The sergeant grinned. “We’ll be watching each of you heroes. If any of you runs away…” The
